“A draft?” said Hanrahan, looking petrified.
“That’s right, Liam, an all-American draft. Everybody goes. Male and female. Rich, poor. Black, white, brown, yellow. Christian, Jew, Muslim, atheist. Out of high school and into the military. No deferments for anyone. It’ll give these kids something to do other than smoke dope and jack off. No more elitist armed forces. No more television wars. No more copouts from politicians when they want to invade some horseshit third world country.”
“We don’t need a draft,” said Hanrahan. “That’s an outrageous recommendation. It’s all academic anyway because you’re not going to get elected. I really don’t care what you think or stand for—so just shut up!”
“Look, you little wimp,” shot back O’Rourke, “we’re going to make you chickenhawks ante up to your responsibilities to your country. And for phony patriots like you, Liam,” said O’Rourke as he gave a wicked smile, “we’re going to have the ‘Chickenhawk Amendment’—making the draft retroactive.”
“You’re despicable,” said Hanrahan.
“I may be despicable, but I’m no chickenhawk.” O’Rourke liked the sound of “chickenhawk” and he used it as a double entendre with Hanrahan: part draft-dodger now willing to get other people’s kids killed in stupid wars, part sexual purveyor of young boys. O’Rourke could care less. It was Hanrahan’s job to sort out the innuendoes.
“You’re nothing but a demagogue,” said Hanrahan.
“Don’t give me any of that sanctimonious crap,” snapped O’Rourke. “You made your bones on demagoguery. If it wasn’t for Bill Clinton—the greatest Republican president this country has had since Ronald Reagan—you’d still be a Rush Limbaugh wannabe on that shitty little Long Island radio station.” The camera zoomed in on O’Rourke. He couldn’t resist. “Fox News. They make it up. You decide!”
“Cut his mike,” Hanrahan yelled to the floor director. “I’m not going to dress you down anymore, out of respect for all those real Vietnam heroes in the audience. Just shut up and get out of here.”
O’Rourke was on a roll, and he couldn’t help himself. The floor director was pulling his thumb across his throat in a frantic “cut, cut!” motion, but they were still live. “And, by the way, Liam. I have a special salute for your boss, that great American Rupert Murdoch.” With that, O’Rourke gave the finger to the camera.
“Someone call security,” yelled Hanrahan from under his desk.
Two black security men, both built like NFL defensive tackles, entered the studio and headed for O’Rourke. They got within six feet of O’Rourke when Clarence Black entered the studio from the other side. “Well, if it isn’t Amos and Andy,” said Black and the two security men stopped in their tracks. Black was standing, holding his jacket open, showing them his piece. Security did not move and O’Rourke escaped the studio. Black insisted they walk down the seven flights of stairs to the ground floor so they could not be trapped in an elevator. Outside, they found a cab.
“What the fuck was that all about?” asked a frenzied Black, clearly shaken. “There’s going to be hell tomorrow. They’re going to be all over you.”
“I know,” smiled O’Rourke. “I know.”
23.
O’Rourke and Black met up with McGuire at the Moat.
“I can’t believe you just did that,” said Sam.
“Neither can I,” said O’Rourke, the immensity of the situation hitting him for the first time.
“You guys want a drink?” asked Black.
“Nah,” said O’Rourke. “I have a couple of things to do at the office.”
After bidding Black goodnight, McGuire and O’Rourke headed for Northern Dispensary Associates down the street. O’Rourke went into his office and McGuire began checking his voicemails.
“Holy shit,” O’Rourke heard McGuire exclaim.
Sam was not one for rampant profanity so O’Rourke looked up from the papers he was reading. “What’s up, Sam?” he said.
Sam rushed into O’Rourke’s office, flushed. “Check this out,” was all she said. She played with O’Rourke’s brand new phone and punched up his voicemail on the speakerphone.
“This is White House Operator 2403,” said the voice. “Stand by for the President of the United States.” McGuire’s eyes were wide with awe; O’Rourke’s eyes were calm in their amusement.
“Tone,” said the voice in a pronounced Arkansas drawl, “this is Bill.... Bill Clinton. Ah, the President of the United States.”
O’Rourke gave a big laugh and was hushed by McGuire. “I think you’re in trouble,” she added.
“Fuck him,” said O’Rourke.
“Tone, how could you?” asked the president. “After all we’ve been through. After the Good Friday Agreement. How could you do this to me on Fox tonight? You called me a Republican. How could you?” O’Rourke was almost beginning to feel sorry for Clinton.
“Anyway,” continued Clinton, “I hope your campaign is successful and Hillary and I would like to talk to you about her senatorial campaign if you have the time.” He paused as if thinking if there was anything to add. “Good night.”
“Wow,” said McGuire. ‘Call him back, right now.”
“Fuck him,” repeated O’Rourke.
“He’s right about the Good Friday Agreement. You owe him.”
“I don’t owe him or Tony Blair or anyone else for doing the right thing,” said O’Rourke vehemently. “After eight hundred years of being fucked, you don’t just kiss and make up.”
“I think you’re too hard on the president.”
“Simone,” said O’Rourke evenly, “love may make the world go round, but hate gives you a reason for living.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you’re a fraud.”
O’Rourke laughed. “You may be right.”
McGuire shook her head. “How about Hillary’s campaign for the Senate? You’ve got to help her. You can’t have Giuliani elected.”
“I wouldn’t worry about Giuliani,” replied O’Rourke. “He’s a lousy politician. It took him two tries to beat David Dinkins, and I would not call Ruth Messinger the second coming of Fiorello H. LaGuardia.”
“I don’t understand your thinking on this.”
“Basically, Giuliani is a bully. And most bullies are pussies.”
“There’s that word again,” said McGuire, folding her arms across her chest.
“He’s a pussy and a lousy politician,” continued O’Rourke. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he pulled out of the race, rather than get his ass handed to him by Hillary. The last elected office he’ll hold will be mayor of the City of New York.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” responded McGuire. O’Rourke looked at her bemused. “You know something I don’t?” she added.
“Maybe,” said O’Rourke with a sureness that told her Rudy Giuliani would never be senator from New York.
24.
New York Daily News, April 24, 2000
Eye on New York by Cyclops Reilly
CHICKENHAWKS
A rose is a rose is a rose.
But when is a chickenhawk a chickenhawk a chickenhawk?
Gertrude Stein—help!
I’m confused because I just finished watching The Hanrahan Debate.
You’ve heard of the fox in the chicken coop, haven’t you? Well, you should tune in and witness the chickenhawks on the Fox Network. They are something, especially Liam Hanrahan, the bestselling author. To paraphrase Joe Louis, “He can type, but he can’t write.” In fact, I bet he couldn’t tell the difference between a semicolon and an ampersand.
Last night Hanrahan had Wolfe Tone O’Rourke, the well-known politico and candidate for Congress, on his show. O’Rourke is also a Vietnam War hero, winner of the Purple Heart, Navy Cross, and Bronze Star. During the debate, Hanrahan—another one of those guys who always loves a war that other people’s kids get to die in—admitted that he was, during our glorious Vietn
am experiment, well, AWOL. He had a deferment because of an insidious anal cyst. Well, with that, O’Rourke called him a chickenhawk. A chickenhawk is a description of someone who loves war, but won’t be caught anywhere near it.
This is where my confusion begins. I was at a press conference with Declan Cardinal Sweeney the other day—you remember the “I am not a sodomite” press conference, don’t you?—and the name of Father Bruce Ritter came up. Father Ritter, who died last year, was the founder of Covenant House, which is supposed to take care of runaway kids, most of whom apparently come to New York from the frozen tundra of Minnesota. You can tell them around the Port Authority Bus Terminal because of their blond hair and purple ears. Anyway, as you may recall, Father Ritter got in trouble because of his great affection for teenage boys. Once Father Ritter was a big star. Ronald Reagan saluted him at a State of the Union address. Politicians wanted to be photographed with him. Rock stars gave free concerts in order to raise money for Covenant House. But it all came tumbling down in 1990. Ritter was nothing more than a pedophilic megalomaniac. He was, in the parlance of the street, a chickenhawk. (Chickenhawk in this case is sexual—a man who preys on young boys.)
Now I’m totally confused. Liam Hanrahan is a chickenhawk, and so is Father Ritter. But they are different kinds of chickenhawks. Hanrahan is a confessed chicken and Ritter was a very predatory hawk. What’s the connection?
You know the only connection I can make? Cardinal Sweeney. Sweeney was a great friend and supporter of Ritter until the hammer fell on the Father. Sweeney is also Liam Hanrahan’s favorite prelate. Hanrahan is against abortion, as is the Cardinal. The Cardinal, as you may have heard, has endorsed Jackie Swift, the Blessed Virgin’s favorite GOP congressman, because of his strong anti-abortion stand. There is nothing more important to the Cardinal than life itself. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said about Congressman Swift and his TV friend Hanrahan. While they are both anti-abortion, they both support the death penalty. Their answer to all crime seems to be “fry ’em first, ask questions later.”
I want to know why the Cardinal, the defender of life, is consorting with these two guys? Does the Cardinal value life on two different levels? Is a fetus, a mass of indistinguishable protoplasm, any more important than a flesh-and-blood human being?
Or is the Cardinal throwing us a curveball? Are we looking for the breaking ball when we should be looking for the high, hard one that delineates the pedophiles in the Catholic Church today?
I think the abortion issue is strictly switch-and-bait tactics by the Church to distract us from the likes of the Father Ritters in our midst.
Yes, a chickenhawk is a chickenhawk is a chickenhawk. And apparently the Cardinal is surrounded by them.
You just need a scorecard to tell them apart.
25.
“Did you see this?” asked the Cardinal of Monsignor Burke as he discursively waved a hand over Cyclops Reilly’s column that sat open on his desk.
“Yes, Eminence,” replied Burke, “I have.”
“Chickenhawks,” said the Cardinal.
“Yes,” said Burke. “Reilly makes an interesting point.”
“And what might that point be?” asked the Cardinal sharply.
“I think he was referring to how cowardly both types of chickenhawks are.”
“His reasoning is flawed,” responded the Cardinal.
“But well written,” returned Burke.
The Cardinal huffed. “That’s the problem with giving a pen to an Irishman. He starts to crow like a cock and thinks himself some kind of oracle.”
Burke wanted to smile at the Cardinal’s reference, but did not. “The Irish,” he said instead, “are prone to rebellion.”
“Rebellion?” the Cardinal said. “I’ve seen enough of rebellion. There’s rebellion everywhere these days—especially in the Church. Gay marriage. Women priests. What’s next? Soon they’ll be demanding lesbian priests.”
“I hold it, that a little rebellion, now and then, is a good thing.”
“So you say,” snapped the Cardinal.
“I am quoting.”
“Who?”
“Thomas Jefferson.”
The Cardinal looked warily at Burke. “You are Irish, too.”
“As are you.”
The Cardinal shook his head. Burke always had a way of agreeing with him while giving him a gentle jab at the same time. “Monsignor,” said the Cardinal as he rubbed his fingers across Cyclops Reilly’s column, picking up printer’s ink in the process, “this is what we’re up against.”
“Reilly can be tough,” said Burke.
“This man has a vendetta against the Church,” said the Cardinal before pausing. “And what kind of a name is Cyclops?”
“It’s a nickname, Eminence,” replied Burke. “He lost an eye in Vietnam. His Christian name is Benedict.”
“Do you know this man, this Reilly?”
Burke thought for a moment and answered truthfully, “No, Eminence.”
“He’s the one who wrote that disgusting story on . . .” The Cardinal suddenly stopped speaking.
“Masturbation.”
“Yes,” said the Cardinal evenly, “masturbation. Made some Holocaust reference. Everyone was amused . . .”
“Except you.”
The Cardinal looked up slowly. “Except me—and Mort Zuckerman,” he said, referring to the owner of the Daily News.
“Yes,” said Burke, “that call you made to Zuckerman put Reilly in his place.”
“Yes,” said the Cardinal, “but apparently he’s back in vogue now.” The Cardinal closed the paper and sighed. “We are going to have to be more cunning.”
“Cunning?”
“Yes,” reiterated the Cardinal, “cunning.” The Cardinal plopped down into his chair. “Dr. Costello says we should be more media savvy.” The name “Costello” immediately piqued Burke. “We have to know how to manipulate media more than we have in the past. Dr. Costello says we are in a new media age.”
“For a simple priest from Niagara Falls,” said Burke, “Dr. Costello seems to know a lot about the intricacies of the media.”
“I’m not sure I like your tone, Monsignor.”
“You are impressed by Dr. Costello, Eminence?”
Burke was making the Cardinal uncomfortable. “Yes,” said the Cardinal. “Yes, I am. Dr. Costello knows his way around. He’s very experienced.”
“Oh,” said Burke, “he gave me the impression that he was nothing more than a simple parish priest.”
“Not at all,” replied the Cardinal. “Costello has friends in high places.”
“High places?”
“The Vatican,” said the Cardinal matter-of-factly. “He consults frequently with the papal nuncio in Washington.” The Cardinal looked up at Burke, who was standing in front of his desk. “He can be trusted.”
“Yes, Eminence,” replied Burke. He paused, then added, “What does Dr. Costello suggest we do to help the candidacy of Congressman Swift?”
“He suggests that we should take to the airwaves.”
“Anything specific?”
“Yes,” said the Cardinal as he shuffled papers in front of him. “Costello has come up with a list of ‘approved’ media that he thinks I should appear on.” He handed the piece of paper to Burke.
“Liam Hanrahan,” Burke read aloud, “Rush Limbaugh, Bourne-in-the-Morn .”
“What do you think?”
“They are all right-wing extremists, Eminence.”
“And what’s wrong with that?”
“Don’t you think,” said Burke carefully, “that it’s too slanted?”
“No,” said Sweeney, “these people agree with us.”
“Eminence,” said Burke with a sudden vehemence, “these people don’t agree with you at all.”
The Cardinal, surprised, was taken aback. “How so?”
“They are all against your ‘working wage’ recommendations. They are against unions. They are against the working man. And t
hey are all for the death penalty.”
“The abortion question is paramount,” said the Cardinal in his own defense. “The Holy Father has made that clear.” Burke shook his head involuntarily, but did not respond. “Dr. Costello thinks I should do Bourne-in-the-Morn first. He will book it personally.”
The Reverend Dr. Costello and Bourne-in-the-Morn. What a combination, thought Burke. Burke, by nature, was distrustful of the media, especially media that feigned seriousness while trying to entertain, like Bourne. Bourne was as subtle as an express train. He was famous for his sketches featuring prominent blacks—covering the spectrum from Colin Powell to Jesse Jackson—whom he saddled with slow-witted black voices that would have been familiar in a 1940s Hollywood film. The renditions were nice and funny and racist through and through. Burke thought that Bourne, and those like him, were the new J. J. Hunseckers of the twenty-first century—self-centered, cocksure, and ready to steamroll over anyone who stood in the way of their politics or their paycheck. From Cyclops, he knew about Bourne’s drug habit and that they called him “Ricochet” down at Hogan’s Moat for the way his eyes would dart to and fro after he had sampled some of Fischbein’s Peruvian Marching Powder.
“What do you think of Bourne?”
“Not much.”
“Costello says he is a sweet-natured man.”
Burke smiled as he thought of Bourne. Then he heard the voice of J. J. Hunsecker in his head: “I’d hate to take a bite of you. You’re a cookie full of arsenic.”
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